Those Scents We Call Home
by Fandom Scribe
Summary: And so it had become a routine for Stiles that every time he felt like he was losing himself he'd seek out the one object that would allow him to keep both of his parents close at once. Small one-shot/drabble thing that I needed to get out of my head...


Those Scents We Call Home

He pressed his face against the soft material of the sweatshirt and took as deep a breath as he could muster in his panicky state.

Soap. No, more like detergent. Yeah, that was it. His dad had probably washed it recently. Not exactly the scent he'd been hoping to pick up, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't trigger a number of fond memories. Memories of burying himself in the warmth of sheets right out of the drying machine, of watching as she folded clean laundry and reassured him the stain on his Halloween costume would come out after a good wash. God, he missed her. He missed her so much he thought his heart would have to shrivel up and turn to stone before it ever stopped aching in her absence. It was especially bad at times like these when he was sitting all alone in his room, desperately trying to stay calm despite everything that was going to hell around him.

No, focus on something else. Don't think about it, you'll only make it worse. Find something else to concentrate on.

Stiles inhaled again, drawing in air until his lungs were full to bursting. And there, just barely noticeable by his dull human senses, he recognized the smell of coffee. Whose coffee? Was it his dad's, who would wear the sweatshirt as he worked long hours into the night with the espresso on his desk as his only constant companion? Those were the days when he was still a rookie at the station and inevitably got stuck with all the bothersome paperwork no one else wanted to do. When he was still young and eager, proud enough of his job to get a Sheriff's Department sweatshirt and crazy enough to twist his busy schedule around the dates he wanted to take a certain feisty foreign girl out on.

Or maybe the coffee was his mom's. He still remembered those steaming mugs of black liquid in her delicate hands, on early mornings when the sun had just risen and she was fuzzy from sleep. Messy hair, droopy eyes, a warm sweatshirt that was now too small for its original owner, and long pale fingers interlocked around her drink. Never a morning person. But not even her sleepiness could keep her from smirking as she'd shoot some remark at her husband -_now this is what _real_ coffee looks like_, she'd say, _watch and learn boys_.

Now he had traded coffee for jack and she had decided she never wanted to see a morning again.

Stop. Exhale. Try again.

On his third try he came across the bittersweet tang of burning wood. It was a miracle, really, that these scents remained engraved on an article of clothing that had been subjected to so many years of overuse, that had been slept in and washed and folded and crumpled up to the point where the fabric was worn and the original color dulled. Maybe he was just so desperate to believe there were parts of her still lingering between his fingers that he would imagine the world before admitting all traces of her were gone, buried six feet underground and never coming back. The reality of it didn't stop him from picturing the memory when he forced his eyes shut. Their little family, curled up on the couch on a winter evening, the cackling of the fireplace drowned out by happy chatter and laughter. Stiles used to love when they did that, when they'd sit around doing nothing but enjoying each other's company and talking out of turn in a disordered frenzy. He'd sit between his parents and feel safe and complete with their arms around him. He never felt like that anymore. He hadn't in years and he doubted he ever would again.

No. Don't go there. Find focus.

The stench of chemicals reached him and he instinctively wrinkled his nose in disgust, fighting a wave of nausea. To him, the penetrating smell of medicine, bleach, and sterilized equipment would always reek of death. And to be honest, it was no wonder death's perfume had managed to weave its presence into the gray fabric of the sweatshirt. His mom had worn it almost constantly at the hospital -right up to her death- and although at first he hadn't understood, that was when he'd come to realize that an object could be a source of comfort too.

One more raggedy breath. One more smell to identify. One more level of memories to uncover. It felt almost like he was peeling back layers of his skin, reopening a wound that he had no reason to touch again. But he knew exactly what he was doing; he'd done this dozens of times before and it never failed to work.

And finally, after shifting through tender and painful memories alike, he found exactly what he was looking for, like he always did. It was his favorite smell in the world; a jumbled combination of coconut shampoo and rain, mixed in with home-cooked Polish meals and lavender perfume. It was a mess that made no sense whatsoever, clashing scents and uncoordinated aromas that would drive anyone crazy. But that was precisely what Stiles loved about it, because it described his mom better than any words he would ever be able to come up with. Just like her smell, she came at you from every angle, passionate about a million things and never settling down enough for anyone to put a label on her. She'd always been in love with the strangest things like jogging through a downpour or seasonal flowers, and it was that fire inside of her that made her impossible to replace.

And so it had become a routine for Stiles that every time he felt like he was losing himself he'd seek out the one object that would allow him to keep both of his parents close at once, and he'd wrap himself in it, letting himself believe those were his parents' arms around him. And then he'd find her scent. It took a little work, and certainly the process came with a lot of painful memories, but they were worth it. They were so worth it because in the end he'd get to drink in this tiny part of her he liked to think was not only a figment of his imagination, and he'd be close to her again. Just that knowledge that he could somehow keep part of her close was enough to calm him down, enough to slow his breathing.

After a few minutes, content with his lowering heart rate and relaxing muscles, he lifted his face from the worn fabric just long enough to put the sweatshirt on. Despite it being about twenty years old, and even though he was the third person to own and use it, he still found the material soft and just about perfect in every way. He curled up in bed, letting the warmth of it envelop him as if in a hug, and continued to take deep breaths until he couldn't smell her anymore, and he was lost to sleep. Yeah, this battered old thing was definitely what Stiles would consider a Stilinski family heirloom.


End file.
